The Innocent & the Damned
by BootsnHats
Summary: Episode tag for Commodities. A recipe for disaster: Mix one blazing house fire with one thoroughly inebriated Musketeer, throw in a resurrected spousal unit, an anxious wanna-be-Musketeer, then bake these ingredients for several months. Serve with a few tissues, a side of wine and a cozy chair.
1. Chapter 1

_The Innocent & the Damned_

 _Proglogue_

 _"What happened? Who was that woman?"_

 _"Since we arrived I felt her presence ... everywhere. I thought I was imagining it."_

 _"Who? Who?!"_

 _"My wife. She died ... five years ago now. By my orders. She was a cold-blooded murderess. I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."_

 _"Look at me. LOOK AT ME! ... Are you saying the ghost of your dead wife tried to kill you?"_

 _"She's not dead, d'Artagnan ... she survived."_

 _"This was her revenge?"_

 _"It was my duty ... it was my duty to uphold the law! My duty to condemn the woman I loved to death. I've cleansed the belief that I had no choice ... Five years learning to live in the world without her ... what do I do now?"_

 _\- Commodities, S1:E3_

 _Chapter One_

One hand still on the _comte's_ knee, mind racing, d'Artagnan turned back to the house. Beside him, Athos folded like a paper doll left out in the rain, breath gurgling harshly. He reeked of smoke and alcohol, the combination so potent d'Artagnan was practically gagging with it.

He was half in love with his mysterious lady, despite her nefarious activities, and already more than slightly infatuated with his landlady, but intuitively he recognized those feelings could not hold a candle to the conflagration of emotions consuming the _comte_ with the same ferocity as his burning house.

 _...what do I do now? ...what do I now? ... what do I do now?_ The anguished utterance rolled around in d'Artagnan's head like an echoing drumbeat.

His father's death had rent his heart from top to bottom, but the farmer in the youth had acknowledged the natural order of progression as well. Plants and animals, and even humans, were born, matured and died, all in the cycle of life.

This was different. Something beyond the ken of mortal understanding had happened here tonight; the dead walked among the living.

d'Artagnan pushed off Athos, staggered as a cough tried to split open his chest, and dropped back to one knee. The force of the wracking pitched him forward, gagging, until he spit out a rock-sized glob of sludge and he could drag in a gasping breath. He had not been in the house that long, but the blazing heat and smoke had affected his lungs, too.

Forming and holding coherent thought was nearly impossible, but he had experience with fire. He needed ... a well ... and buckets ... and people ... though even as the notion took shape, glass exploded from the second floor windows, showering the two of them with impaling splinters and shards of glass. Red hot flags of flame shot from the upper story, sheets of it wrapping around window embrasures, scorching the ancient stone facade. Two floors of the right wing were completely engulfed.

There was nothing he could do here ... nothing. d'Artagnan lurched back around, dropping to his knees again. "Where's your horse?" They'd left the horses tied to bushes in front of the house when they'd first sought its sanctuary last night, but Athos' great black beast was nowhere in sight.

There was no response from the _comte_ and d'Artagnan reached to drag him up by the sleeve of his jacket. "Where's your horse?" the Gascon demanded, shaking his slack-jawed, bleary-eyed friend. "Athos! Where's your horse?!"

"Horse." The single word came out on a cough that spasmed deep in Athos' chest, caught at the back of his throat and would not release its hold. The Musketeer had been in that blazing inferno far longer than d'Artagnan; he flopped like twelve stone of cooked pasta.

d'Artagnan snatched a second handful of jacket, jerking the man upright again. "Yes, horse. Where?" The reek of spirits was stronger even than the noxious smell of smoke. It was a wonder Athos hadn't spontaneously combusted, it had been as hot as hell inside the house, and the Musketeer appeared to have been drinking steadily the entire time he'd been alone.

"d'Artaga..."

"Where's your horse," d'Artagnan repeated, dread creeping up his spine like a snake uncoiling. "Athos, stay with me! How much did you drink?"

"Not worth it ... you should have left me ... in there ... should have left ..." Athos sagged forward, forehead catching d'Artagnan's collarbone with enough force to rattle both their teeth.

"Holy Mother of God," d'Artagnan grunted, borrowing Aramis' blasphemous prayer. For a just a moment he let his cheek rest against the dark head slumped against his shoulder, then lowered the Musketeer carefully back down on the grass.

Cursing Aramis, who should have known better than to leave Athos alone in this place when he had clearly been reluctant to even reveal its existence to begin with, d'Artagnan went for his own horse. Except the creature balked, half rearing, jerking at the reins ruthlessly dragging it toward danger.

"I know, I know," d'Artagnan soothed, the words grating in his raw throat as he swept a gauntleted hand down the tense neck even as he led the horse forward, "It's all right, we won't get too close, just a little further. See? Just here, where we can get our friend _Monsieur_ Athos on your back."

Though how he was going to accomplish that, d'Artagnan as yet had no clue. If he let go of the reins, the horse, terrified of the roar and crackle and heat pouring from the house, would most assuredly bolt, leaving both of them stranded. Though neither could he leave Athos and go for help. A resurrected woman diabolical enough to wait five years to have her revenge made more than just d'Artagnan's spine creep. Every part of him cringed at the thought of leaving his unconscious friend at her mercy should she decide to return. He drew his pistol as a precautionary measure, but then both hands were full, and Athos still lay in a drunken swoon on the ground.

d'Artagnan breathed a few of the new curses he'd learned from Porthos over the last few months.

The fire was not going out anytime soon, the horse was not going to stand still, and Athos did not appear to be giving any thought to rousing and getting himself on the animal. d'Artagnan walked the fidgeting steed in a tight circle twice, thrice, and then a fourth time before inspiration struck. He shoved his pistol back in his belt for ease of collecting and began searching the ground as he walked the horse in wider circles.

He found a good-sized rock he could scoop up one-handed and chivvied the stallion back over to Athos' recumbent form. "I'm sorry," he told the horse, pulling its head down so he could tether the reins with the rock. "I know this will be uncomfortable, but it will only be for a few seconds while I get Athos up. Behave and I swear there's a bag of oats at the end of this hellish night."

Lifting an unconscious Athos was not an easy job as it turned out. While d'Artagnan was whipcord thin, he was not without strength. He was, after all, a farm boy; he'd handled teams from the time he'd been able to thread the reins between his small fingers. He was also a swordsman, a feat that required a great deal of upper body strength, in addition to the stamina to outlast an opponent.

Attempting to get Athos' dead weight on his backing and filling horse, though, raised a sweat, and not because the fire was sucking the cool from the night like a tide pulling out to sea. Failing for the third time, d'Artagnan resorted to his water skin again, trickling the cool liquid over Athos' face.

"Come on, come on," he begged. "We can't stay here and I'm afraid I'm going to break your neck trying to get you on the horse. You have to wake up, Athos. Wake up!"

For all practical purposes, the fire created so much light it might have been day. d'Artagnan peeled back an eyelid, having watched Aramis do it enough times to know what he was looking for. Completely rolled back; not even a bit of the blue iris was visible. Though a vivid bruise marked the left cheekbone, blue filling in the hollow beneath the eye, shading to dark purple as it crept inexorably downward.

"We can't stay here," d'Artagnan repeated, as much from anxiety as trying to rouse the Musketeer. "You leave me no choice."

Propping Athos so the man was at least half upright, d'Artagnan bent as far as he could, jammed a shoulder under the lower ribs and shoved up to standing, staggering under the additional weight. But he managed, this time, to sling the inert body over the saddle, grab the trailing reins, get his foot in the stirrup and fling a leg over the hindquarters before the horse bolted with both of them into the black of night.

* * *

A/N - According to history dot com, the first reported account of spontaneous combustion dates back to 1641, eleven years after this story is set. Yes, I did look it up. Prior readers will know that I have a tendency to bend and reshape history to fit the needs of a story. So please pretend that even though there were no recorded reports prior to 1641, perhaps farmers with hay stacks were aware of the phenomenon.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

Athos came to consciousness slowly, his alcohol and smoke-fogged brain unable to process anything more than the sensation of pain. He knew without a doubt that his head hurt. It took awhile to realize his arms and legs were still connected but flopping uselessly at either end of his torso. It was a considerable while longer before he could focus his eyes enough to make out a booted foot jammed into a stirrup not two inches from his throbbing cheek. Which meant, if his thinking was not completely muddled, that he was hanging upside down like a bat.

It came to him, finally, that he was hanging over a horse, his body waking centimeter by centimeter, a tingling in his fingers and toes crawling up arms and legs to meet at his middle. He coughed, vomited, and nearly aspirated on it before someone grabbed him by his sword belt, startling a great whoosh of air out of his lungs as his booted toes became acquainted with the uneven ground. And then he was tumbling like an acrobat, though without any of the finesse, head over heels to land on top of whoever had been trying to haul him up.

Athos gagged and vomited again, all over d'Artagnan, who had twisted to take the brunt of their free fall. Damn stupid kid! The Musketeer rolled to his feet with the fluidity of the still-dead-drunk, no thought in his head beyond quenching the out-of-control inferno that was his soul. He snatched at pistol in d'Artagnan's belt, though it eluded his grasp

d'Artagnan, dazed as he was from the fall, rolled away from the grasping fingers, lifting off the ground just enough to use his hands and feet to scuttle backwards. Athos lost his balance and fell forward on hands and knees so they made a ridiculous pair in the moonlight - one crab-walking backwards, the other crawling forward in hot pursuit.

Athos heard d'Artagnan grunt and saw him roll away and hunch over as the youth stumbled to his feet cradling both gauntleted hands to his chest.

His own forward motion stopped only when a hefty prick near his eye brought him to his senses. The pain of the thorns barely registered though, compared to the throbbing in his cheek and head. He backed slowly away from the thorny bush, flopped to his side and rolled over on his back, praying as he'd never prayed before, for release from this agony of an existence.

For he did not live, his was merely a plodding subsistence from one assignment to the next; and that was not _just_ the drink talking. He knew himself to be eternally damned already. It was fiendish punishment to make him wait so long for the reaping of his soul.

Bare, bloody hands fisted in the front of his jacket, dragging him up yet again, trying to force him to stand. "For God's sake, just leave me here to rot! Let my bones sink back into the soil and taint this whole land. It's cursed already, let it swallow me whole."

"I knew drink made you stupid." d'Artagnan's voice in his ear was breathless with the effort of trying to hold him up. "I didn't know it made you pitiful. Dammit, Athos, you're capable of standing; DO IT!"

Not one particle of the thing that was Athos _wanted_ to obey, but he had been a soldier long enough that his brain instinctively reacted to the command. His knees involuntarily stiffened so he was supporting his own weight. He was turned in place, boots shifting easily in the sandy soil, so he was facing the horse that was attempting to graze on a meager tuft of grass between its feet.

"Get your ass in the saddle or I'll knock you out and throw you over the horse again," the annoying voice buzzed in his ear.

"You don't understand." Athos slumped against the stallion, who at d'Artagnan's command, stood steady as a rock now that they were out of sight of the blazing house.

"No, I don't," the youth agreed. "I don't understand any of this. But I'm not going to let you kill yourself until you're stone cold sober. Then if you're still set on blowing your brains out, you can do it with your own gun, on your own time and not on my watch."

Athos was suddenly unsteadily balanced on his right foot as his left boot was shoved into the stirrup. His chest, he thought suddenly, as his fundament was shoved forcefully into the saddle, hurt like he'd been sat on by a bull. "Should have stayed away," he grunted, clutching at the saddle horn as he swayed dizzily. There was not a muscle, tendon or bone in his body that did not ache with a roaring ferocity.

"I should have," d'Artagnan agreed mordantly.

Athos gave up trying to hold himself upright and slumped over the horse's mane. He felt d'Artagnan swing up behind him, gather the reins and a moment later, a hand inside the back of his collar dragged him up against his savior. An arm slid around his chest and his head flopped back against a bony shoulder. And they were walking into the obscurity of the night.

An eternity later - time had ceased to flow linearly - the horse stopped and Athos was manhandled from the saddle, propped on his feet and shoved toward a bright light that made his throbbing head explode. Vision splintered, but a hand closed around his wrist as an arm circled his shoulders and he was urged forward, up a couple of wooden stairs that creaked anciently, two pairs of boots echoing hollowly down a short, candle-lit corridor. He squeezed his eyes shut against the refracting light.

The smell hit him with such intensity his stomach rebelled on the first intake of breath; garlic, wine and the sickly sweet odor of mice, a lethal combination to his already overset olfactory senses. Athos doubled over, retching, d'Artagnan's knee wedged under his shoulder the only thing keeping him from nose diving into the mess.

Someone shoved a bucket, or maybe it was a kettle, under him; it was black and massive and took on the aspect of a crouched spider waiting for prey. He was very sick for a very long time, another eternity at least, before the wracking spasms slowly, slowly released him, leaving every muscle in his body quivering in the aftermath.

Surely an eternity of burning could be no worse than the hell he'd endured since he'd sentenced his wife to die by the rope. But that damn dilettante of a devil _still_ had not come for him.

Athos found himself suddenly - or so it seemed - in a bed, pauldron, coat and shirt all missing, though the locket still hung about his neck. He did not remember moving his body from one place to another and yet he was propped, half naked, against a mound of pillows.

And finally - _finally_ \- the devil stood at the foot of the bed, dark hair curtaining swarthy features that refused to coalesce in the dancing candlelight. A woman stood beside the creature, one of the devil's hands between both of her own. The dark head turned to look over its shoulder and there were three eyes, two mouths, and a smooth plane where a nose should have been.

One of the mouths said something. The devil might be an ugly son-of-a-bitch, but he was not leaving this room without taking Athos' repulsive soul with him. Each one of those quivering muscles in the _comte's_ body tensed in anticipation and Athos lunged with every ounce of strength he possessed.

A finger twitched against the coverlet, but that was the extent of his ability to move. Darkness shot through him like bolts of dark lightening, fissuring consciousness, but he willingly allowed the spiraling vortex to drag him down, down, down into the depths of darkness, his last conscious thought a mental sigh of relief. _At last. At last he would collect his just reward._

Clearly there was no God, for when consciousness prodded him to wakefulness again, he knew not how long later, he was not in hell, unless his youthful companion had been dragged down with him. Or more likely, followed.

Comprehension returned slowly; it was unlikely hell offered the comfort of a feather mattress. Perhaps if there was no God, then there was no devil. Or perhaps if one did not _believe_ in God, one could not expect to believe in the devil either. The intellectual conundrum was too much for Athos' ailing brain. He gave up trying to parse what he thought he believed and opened his eyes again. Though he was vastly disappointed.

d'Artagnan stood at the foot of the bed, twin candle flames reflected in the dark eyes watching him.

"Where are we?" The grating noise did not sound much like the words he thought he'd formed, and Athos tried again. "Where ... are ... we?"

Between one blink and the next, d'Artagnan disappeared and the devil was back, rumbling something to his female minion, who reluctantly returned the hand she was holding and with a bobbed curtsey, left the room.

Athos heard the scrape of boots as the devil turned and made his way around the bed. The features resolved into two eyes, just one mouth, and a nose this time and became, again, Athos' youthful shadow.

d'Artagnan was missing his jacket, his hands dripping blood. He wiped them carefully with a cloth, then bent at the waist, dark hair obscuring the concerned gaze. Athos jerked when warm fingertips grazed the back of his own hand.

"You're cold as a block of ice," d'Artagnan said on a sigh. "Athos, I don't know what to do."

"Cold?" Speaking was its own kind of torture. Some part that might have been a throat rasped as though it was spiked through with hot, jagged icicles. "Not cold." Though Athos was shivering as with the ague. "Where?" he tried again, unsure if he was making himself understood.

d'Artagnan was a cut above, or he'd been around the Musketeers long enough to translate. "One of your tenant farms. I stopped at the first place that showed light."

 _Christ._ Athos dropped his head back. _Goddamn the devil!_ That struck his very dry sense of humor and he started to laugh, a bit crazily he knew, and it hurt like torture as well, but he could not help himself. It was either that or wail at the Erinys for standing between him and the fate he so richly deserved _yet again_. Perhaps _they_ had sent d'Artagnan to bedevil him. Twice now, in just a couple of months, the youth had saved his skin.

d'Artagnan just watched him, the concern that had been stamped on the exotically handsome face disappearing as though ironed away. He was still so very young and innocent, despite his vigorous and profane protests to the contrary. In comparison, Athos felt like a leaky ancient vessel, glued back together one too many times to be useful anymore.

And yet he would have to at least pretend to put himself back together again. The harsh, grating laugh died away.

The innocent and the damned. d'Artagnan should not have been the one left to shoulder the burden of his wretched soul.

She was alive. ALIVE!

The guilt he had lived with for the last five years was absolved, exonerated! His inseparable companion vanished like a conjuror's trick. Though in its place, a new confrère had appeared. She had lived through a hanging; such an experience must scar the spirit indelibly. What kind of reprehensible human being could do that to someone he loved?

Apparently one who could not manage to die properly either. And d'Artagnan was nattering on at him again.

"...I can't drag you back to town like this, we have to dry you out and put you back together again."

"No." The single word came out cracked and broken and he found his face buried in d'Artagnan's bony shoulder again. The incongruous thought wandered through his mind that their puppy had not yet grown into his adult height, he was still bony all over. And then it was gone and he could not remember why his face was pressed against that bony shoulder.

Oh. There it was; he Just. Wanted. To. Die.

 _TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

d'Artagnan heard the farmer's wife returning down the hall, then felt her skirts brush his legs. He was kneeling still, on the floor beside the bed in the bedchamber into which he'd half-dragged the couple's limp-as-a-wilted-stalk landlord.

"Here," the woman said, bending over so her ample breast rested over his right shoulder. In her right hand she was holding a bowl out to him. "Mustard and water; it will make him vomit again. It draws the blood to the stomach to cleanse it."

At least that's what d'Artagnan thought he heard, her accent was so thick he had trouble understanding her. _If_ he'd understood correctly, it sounded like an old wives tale, but with no Aramis to discredit the remedy, it was all he had to work with.

Behind him, her spouse repeated the instructions gruffly from the doorway. " I've signaled the neighborhood 'bout the fire and sent men to deal with it," he added, "likly b'now, there won't be much left o' the place. Her'n want't know wot happened t'your hands?"

The bowl was set down on the small bedside table and d'Artagnan's hands were seized. He was drawn to his feet and the wife hauled him the two steps necessary to cross the room to inspect his palms in the light of the single, wavering candle flame atop the dresser.

A pair of sharp commands sent the farmer clomping down the hallway and back again, several more candles inserted between the fingers of one hand, a sewing basket in the other. He passed over the sewing kit and lit three more candles, seating them in wax puddles on the top of a humpback trunk pressed up against the wall at the foot of the bed.

The little room grew brighter, shadows sprang up in the corners, and the missus let go of d'Artagnan's hands to rummage in the sewing basket until she unearthed a small pair of scissors. Motioning imperially, she drew him closer to the line of candles, then set to work pulling out thorns that had worked themselves deep into the flesh of his palms.

d'Artagnan made not one sound until she had smoothed a thick salve over both hands and was bandaging the left. He flexed the right one, already bandaged, and sucked in his breath. He'd counted; with the scissors she'd drawn out seven little spikes and brought to the surface half a dozen more with a sort of glue like substance that pulled them out. She'd pulled another half dozen out of his left hand. Holding reins was going to be an unpleasant experience for the next day or two.

"Thank you." d'Artagnan gave her a little bow, there was no room to do more, and the woman stepped back, though she issued several more instructions he could not follow. He did move back around the bed to pick up the bowl she had set down, looking to the husband for translation.

"Her'n says to make sure he's 'anging over t'side when it starts't workin', so he ain't soilin' t'bedclothes."

"Right. Any idea how long it takes to work?" d'Artagnan asked without expectation, thankful Athos was out of it enough to be slightly compliant when he pressed the bowl to the pale lips.

"Her'n say mebbe right away, mebbe a few min..."

No need to continue. d'Artagnan jerked Athos sideways so he hung over the side of the bed, spewing more black slime on the woven rag rug. Behind them, the woman chattered some more and d'Artagnan felt her abundant fundament press into his other shoulder as she bent to move the rug so it took the brunt of the barrage.

"More," she said, after inspecting the discharge closely. Then mimed her words so her intention was clear.

d'Artagnan choked back his own gag reflex and tipped Athos' head back to pour more of the foul brew down his throat, then hurriedly hauled him back over the edge, this time to heave over a wooden bucket in place of the rug. How they'd managed that so quickly, d'Artagnan had no idea, though time no longer ran linearly for him either.

When there was nothing left to vomit, the _épouse_ brought soup for d'Artagnan to alternate, until finally, several _d'Artagnan_ eternities later, the _comte_ began to emerge from the dense fog of alcoholic haze.

The farmer had disappeared when it became clear d'Artagnan no longer needed an interpreter.

"Enough," the wife said now, after another inspection of the contents of this new bucket. d'Artagnan thought they must have been at it for at least an hour, possibly two. Athos appeared to have lost all skeletal structure, hanging between them like so much wet laundry. His sweat-soaked clothes were plastered to his body, his hair curling like a wet halo around his haggard features.

The wife gestured for d'Artagnan to lift the _comte_ again, sign language having become the preferred method of communication, and peeled off the literally dripping shirt. She collected a damp cloth and made quick work of bathing the silent-as-a-stone Musketeer. Finishing that, she turned each pillow mounded behind their patient and signed for d'Artagnan to allow her landlord to lie back again.

d'Artagnan drew the covers up, stood for a moment looking down at the Musketeer, then turned to help clean up the room. The wife disappeared again briefly, returning with a handful of dried mint that she crushed and sprinkled around the room, instantly freshening the stale atmosphere, though even that could not overcome the pungent aroma of smoke and fire and alcohol.

"I'm sorry, Madame, I missed your name. I know your husband told me -" d'Artagnan began.

She put a finger to his lips, stopping the exhausted utterance with a soft smile. "It is no matter, the name it is not important." And held out a clean shirt. "This will fit, yes? It belonged to my eldest."

d'Artagnan, mindful of the gift she imparted, took it with careful reverence. "Thank you, I will make sure it is returned to you in the same condition." The shirt was beautifully smocked to gather the fullness across the chest and embroidered along the neatly turned hem, with white on white fleur de lis. It was pristine; the son had not worn it many times.

"No no, he will not need it again. He is gone to the Blessed Mother. It is fine enough even for our _comte_ , yes?"

The raiment they had stripped off the _comte_ had been plain, coarse muslin, only the bare essential of a shirt. This was of the softest cotton, every seam finished so no raw edges showed, every exquisite stitch set so precisely even the closest inspection did not show where one ended and the next began.

" _Oui_ , Madame," d'Artagnan agreed respectfully, "fine enough even for the _comte_."

She beamed her pleasure as she announced, "I will bring food."

d'Artagnan stifled his sigh. It really had been too much to hope that she had not recognized the smell of spirits. He turned back to Athos with the shirt and found the _comte_ watching him, though the red-rimmed eyes dropped before their gazes touched.

"You cannot imagine how much I resent the fact that you're a good friend right now."

The rasp d'Artagnan heard in the Musketeer's voice did not detract in the least from the declamation. He did not so much as flinch from the castigation. "You would have done the same had our positions been reversed," he said quietly, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"There is a vast gulf of difference between us, d'Artagnan. And I am not putting that shirt on."

"Of course there is. You're eons older than me, you're a Musketeer in the king's employ, and you're a stupid drunk. I, on the other hand, am barely old enough to walk and talk, I'm a lowly farmer from Gascony and I am ridiculous when I drink. Which is why I never drink in excess." d'Artagnan gathered the shirt between his hands. "You are also putting on this shirt because it would be the height of rudeness to refuse after all this woman has done for you. And you are never impolite, even when you've poisoned yourself practically to death."

"That's not what I meant."

"You are not usually delusional either. You're damn well aware I understood exactly what you meant, now sit up." d'Artagnan kept the hard edge in his voice despite the unholy desire to weep like a babe.

Athos' suffering cut to the quick. Aramis would know exactly what to do or say to drag their leader out of the emotional tempest he was drowning in. d'Artagnan could only hold on to the man and hope Athos would not slash the bindings he was trying to lash around some immovable object that they might both weather this night's storm.

Sighing, Athos gathered the strength to lean forward, though he could not manage it on his own.

d'Artagnan maneuvered the shirt over the Musketeer's head and threaded his pliant arms through the sleeves, tying the laces loosely at the wrists.

While d'Artagnan had neither Aramis' skill nor emotional range, he was not so inexperienced that he did not recognize Athos' anger was directed inward. And that this was a pain over which the man had no control. He understood, too, that quite a bit of Athos' resentment was directed at him for standing in the way of dealing with that pain in the only way the _comte_ imagined it could be assuaged.

He would plant himself between Athos and that assuagement for as long as necessary, endure whatever abuse the Musketeer heaped upon him as a result, so long as in the end his friend was alive to face another day. And then they would find this woman and deal with her.

"What happened?"

"I told you."

Because he was a quick learner, d'Artagnan had realized early on that Aramis' people skills were worth emulating. He'd watched the man like a hawk and knew, as a result, Athos usually spilled if the interrogator waited him out. Only ever in bits and pieces, but always enough that an astute listener could put the puzzle pieces together if inclined to do so. So he waited - with uncharacteristic patience.

"I told you," Athos said again, so wearily d'Artagnan thought his own heart might break at the desperation in the singularly simple and yet terribly complex set of words.

"And I heard you, but I don't understand how a woman who should be no more than a ghost set your home on fire." d'Artagnan, who had moved to the floor because it put him slightly lower than the comte's eye level, pulled up his knees and propped his elbows on them. "Tell me again. You had her hung because she was a cold-blooded murderess, you thought she was dead, and now she's alive? It makes no sense. I can't fathom that you were not there to see the deed done. If you gave the order, you stayed to see it carried out."

A long silence ensued before the raspy voice admitted, so quietly d'Artagnan had to strain to hear, "I watched Remy pull the cart out from under her ... heard the involuntary cry as the rope choked her and I could take no more ... I turned and rode away ... she did not die, d'Artagnan ... there was not enough of a drop to break her neck. Remy cut her down as soon as I was out of sight and revived her. I found him ... this afternoon ... with his throat slit. She said he had lived in fear for the last five years, that he was terrified I would find out what he'd done, and she'd put him out of his misery ... it's probably true. He was the kind of man who would have found that knowledge hard to live with."

 _Like you_ , d'Artagnan thought silently, squeezing his eyes shut. "Who else did she kill?"

"Thomas ... when she realized he had discovered the truth of what she was and had been trying to tell me ... I was completely under her spell and had no ears to hear his indictment. I thought -" Athos stopped dead, his breathing growing more labored than before. "I thought," he said eventually, the hoarse rasp little more than a broken sigh of sound, "that for once someone had chosen me over him ... if I had listened..."

 _Thomas, my younger brother ... everyone's favorite._

" _Mère de Dieu_ **,"** d'Artagnan repeated softly, understanding coming full circle.

"I happened to be nearby when my ex-fiancé screamed the house down ... Anne probably would have murdered her too ... claimed Jeanne and Thomas killed one another ... I would have believed her."

"Anne?" d'Artagnan did not know why he was surprised, Anne was not an uncommon name. "Her name was Anne, like the queen?"

"Yes." Though she was the direct antithesis of France's lovely Spanish ambassadress.

An imperative knock sounded on the door jamb. "I've brought food and black coffee," the wife stated.

d'Artagnan rose quickly, taking the heavy tray, though there was nowhere to put it. The woman gestured to the floor and stepped back, folding her arms over her bosom as she fastened a gimlet eye on Athos. "We didn't know the Master'd taken the king's coin. We thought he'd been murdered by that whore, too, not seeing him for nigh on five years now."

d'Artagnan did not understand, but she was gone before he could ask her to repeat herself.

"She says they thought I'd been murdered ... too," Athos translated.

"Oh." That was enough to illuminate the rest of her comment. A nobleman turning up after five years absence, in the uniform of a soldier, no matter how elite the unit, would certainly raise eyebrows. But there had been no malice in the woman's voice, only fond exasperation. That said a lot about the character of the man lying in the bed.

"You never did tell me where your horse is." d'Artagnan said, changing the subject with determination. There was nothing to be done this night, in the matter of a resurrected wife. He busied himself buttering a slice of bread, then slathering it with a thick coating of goat cheese. "We need to get back to Paris before roll call in the morning."

"Horse?" Athos put a hand to his aching head - the one holding the bread d'Artagnan had just put into his hand.

"Two ears, four legs, long tail. They convey us from place to place?" d'Artagnan sat back down on the bed, took the bread back, broke it into pieces and began handing them over one at a time, lips twitching at the garnered scowl.

The scowl went from obstinate to murderous, but Athos cooperated. Because d'Artagnan was right; they did have to get back to Paris. "Left him at the blacksmith barn."

"Where is that? And how far?"

"Where are we?"

"Mmmmm ... I don't know. Half an hour from the house, maybe an hour. I lost track of time." And direction, but d'Artagnan could get that from the farmer.

"Blacksmith is east of the house. Short ride ... longer walk." Athos refused the last pieces of bread. His abused stomach was churning again. "Is there water?"

"No," d'Artagnan inspected the tray. "The goodwife apparently thinks you still need sobering up; she brought coffee. There's other stuff on here I don't recognize, but no water. Do you want some?"

"Please."

d'Artagnan unfolded and headed off in search of water.

Athos took the opportunity to drag himself to the edge of bed and use the chamber pot, though his trembling limbs would not hold him up longer than it took to do the necessary. It was going to take more than a few bites of bread and few more minutes lying down to recoup the strength necessary to make it onto his horse.

"What time is it?" he asked, crawling reluctantly back under the covers as d'Artagnan returned with a pitcher of water and a copper chalice.

d'Artagnan put the pitcher on the floor beside the tray and knelt again by the bed. "I left the barracks right around the hour of evensong." He held the cup for Athos to take, making sure there was strength enough to hold it before letting go. "It must be well after compline."

"Why did you come back?"

d'Artagnan sat back on his heels, dark eyes shifting to the floor. "I was ..." He twisted his neck as though it was painfully tight.

In this small, quiet room in the middle of the night, Athos heard it pop.

"I was worried."

The Musketeer squeezed his eyes shut. The puppy was both a blessing and a curse. And definitely sent by the Erinys; he might be roasting comfortably in hell right now otherwise.

"d'Artagnan," he began, then stopped; he could not call the youth on his hero worship, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. He changed tack in the middle of the stream. "We have to get back."

"I know. I just wanted to be sure you were alright before I go collect your horse."

"Depending on where we are, it may be quicker riding double back to the blacksmith." And in the habit of command, he added, "Get the farmer."

d'Artagnan shifted back to his knees, usurping the power of command. "No." He set the cup he'd taken back down on the table by the bed. "I seriously doubt you're capable of standing on your own, and I don't have the luxury of Porthos' assistance to haul you around."

So much for hero worship, but Athos had to concede the youth made a valid argument.

"So you're staying here while I got collect your horse."

"You've made your point."

d'Artagnan scooped his jacket off the top of the dresser and slid into it.

"d'Artagnan?"

The youngster turned in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

"You saw her ... she was ... she was real?"

"The woman I saw on a horse was not a ghost. And she was a bruising rider."

Athos let his head sink back against the pillow. "It's not a dream."

"Uh ... your home is probably burned to the ground by now. If this is nightmare, I'm having the same dream."

"Stone does not burn." Dreams did; they went up in flames like dry tinder. His had burned down years ago, though they had continued to haunt him nightly. "God ... she's alive. What do I do now?"

d'Artagnan recognized it for the rhetorical question it was. "I'll be back shortly. There's nothing to be done tonight. Try to rest."

He knew the Lazarus story of course, but to be confronted with a modern day version of an ancient biblical tale was confounding to say the least. He turned to go, stopped, and turned back again. "Athos, did she set the house on fire knowing you were in it?"

"I do not believe so. I was ... a surprise to her, though not quite as much of a surprise as she was to me. She had a dagger ... I would have let her kill me ... I told her to." And he'd meant it with every fiber of his being. He'd grown oh-so-weary of waiting in this anti-room of hell.

d'Artagnan leaned his forehead against the doorjamb, helpless in the face of such desolation. What gave him the right to impose his own will on another? The struggle hardly merited notice, so short was its duration. Quietly, without fanfare, he drew his pistol, set it carefully on top of the dresser and walked out of the room.

* * *

 _Epilogue_

The youth from Gascony had never been more grateful for a sunrise, for the warmth of the sun shining beacon bright across the length and breadth of Paris as they rode in through the gate in the curtain wall Charles V had caused to be built, down the _rue Saint-Honoré,_ past the Louvre, and on to _place Saint-Sulpice._

"Our Spanish friend." They were first words Athos had spoken on their return journey. d'Artagnan reined up, turning in the saddle to observe his mentor. No one would guess, seeing the comte as he was this morning, that he'd spent the night heaving up his guts. Though Aramis might recognize the dark shadows echoing the blue of the gaze following a rider up the street ahead of them. The bruised cheek would surely be cause for questions as well, but obediently d'Artagnan followed that gaze, his own lighting on the uniquely broad hat marking the Spanish spy.

"Leave him to me ... d'Artagnan." The brim of the hat shading those fiercely blue eyes turned back slowly.

d'Artagnan, ahead by the length of a horse, said nothing as Athos eyed him in turn, merely waited expectantly.

"Say nothing to the others ... of what happened."

d'Artagnan nodded. "You have my word."

The hat tipped in acknowledgement, Athos clicked his horse into motion again and - despite the pauldron boldly on display - became one with the throng of merchants and craftsman hurrying through the street.

The youth from Gascony, older and wiser than he had been just yester eve, touched his heels lightly to his mount, moving forward with purpose. The streets were busy and he could move at no more than a careful walk, so he set his mind to excising the events of the last fourteen hours, pleasantly surprised when it turned to thoughts of his mysterious lady. A woman with a rope burn around her neck and a penchant for murder. Fleetingly, he wondered if Athos' un-dead wife could be one and the same, but the idea was too preposterous to even admit to consciousness and he set it aside as well.

By the time he dismounted beside the lines of laundry in the foreyard of the Bonacieux home, he was wondering how Porthos' shoulder was and if - just perhaps - his land lady would be glad to see him.

 _ttt_


End file.
